Grand Slam
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: She roots for the Red Sox. He's a die-hard Yankees fan. Somehow, they both win.


_"I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together." __ ~Lisa Kleypas_

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_***Author's Note: Set some time during Season Eight...obviously...***_

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It is the perfect balmy day that was created just for baseball—the sun is warm, but not too warm, dappling across their skin as the car snakes and winds its way down the open country road. The birds are singing, though they can't be heard over the wind rushing past their ears.

David has the top down in his little black sports car, and Erin's bare feet are propped up on the dash board, red toe nails wiggling happy in the sunshine.

Nature is beautiful, as always. But the force of nature sitting in his passenger seat is much more captivating.

She is wearing a baseball cap (of course it is for the Red Sox, she _must_ be a Red Sox fan, because Rossi loves the Yankees) to keep her blonde hair from being completely blown out by the wind, her face turned happily towards the sky, beaming and bright in a way that only a person in love can be.

He likes that. He likes knowing that he's the reason she glows.

She senses his gaze, because she warns, "Keep your eyes on the road, David."

Despite her tone, the corner of her thin lips curl into a slight smile (she likes when he looks, likes how he looks, is fascinated by the fact that he finds her fascinating).

"Just thinking of how I can't wait to burn that hat," he replies, smiling to himself when she gives a huff of derision. That was their wager today—the loser has to give up a piece of team memorabilia, to be ceremoniously destroyed by the victor.

"You keep dreaming, sweetheart," she patronizes him, and he laughs. She's grinning, too, and then she reaches over to gently shove his shoulder, "Seriously. Eyes on the road. You'll kill us before I get the chance to gloat over my impending win."

"You darling, delusional woman," he shakes his head at her words, and she merely hums in amusement, turning to actually look at him—he can feel the slow burn of her gaze, tracing his profile, slipping over his arms, further down (and he likes when she looks, too, likes how she looks, likes how she makes him feel like the only man in the universe).

"Now who's staring?" He taunts lightly, and she grins.

"Just thinking of how I can't wait to use that shirt as a dust rag," she purrs in response, playing at his own level. She reaches over, picks at an imaginary piece of lint on his shoulder (she always does that, as if she needs an excuse to touch him) before smoothing her hand over his shoulder, down the curve of his bicep, fingertips caressing the flesh beneath.

Then she pulls away, turning her face back to the sun and placing her feet back on the dashboard. Everything about this moment makes her happy. They have the weekend off, and her eldest brother has tickets for a Yankees-Red Sox battle royale in Boston—first, it's a great weekend getaway, second, they both love a good game of baseball, and third (and perhaps most importantly), it is a chance for David to be around her family and for her to return home. These are all things that people in relationships do, and all these little realizations fill her with a bubbling warmth.

She glances over at him, smiling to herself at how well they fit. They are driving up to Boston today, but the game isn't until tomorrow (though they are already in their team colors, because why pass up the chance for a little rivalry?). Despite the clashing emblems on their outfits, they match—him in his khaki cargo shorts and grey Yankees tee, her in her khaki capris and her navy tank top and Red Sox cap, both happy and relaxed and quietly adoring in a way that lets other people know _we are together, we are in love_.

It's funny to think that their taste in sports is a perfect analogy for how they fit in every other aspect of life—neither cares for football, both like basketball but do not seriously follow it, he likes soccer and she was a soccer mom, baseball is their preference and of course their favorite teams are bitter rivals.

She can't stop herself from shifting in her seat again, moving her left foot, nudging his knee with her toes. He easily removes his right hand from the steering wheel, reaching down to trace the outline of her arch before gently placing her foot in his lap. She's grinning at her own lack of impulse control—whenever it's just them, whenever he's simply Dave, not Agent Rossi, she can't resist the urge to touch him, to always be physically connected to him in some way. Even now, her foot in his lap isn't enough—she's rotating her foot, letting her toes lightly trail up and down his stomach.

"Watch it, monkey toes," he warns lightly, and the moniker makes her laugh again (he always makes fun of her feet, of how she uses them like a second set of hands, picking up dropped pens or shoes or even a few books).

Her agile toes pinch at the fabric of his shirt, tugging lightly as she informs him, "It's not my fault that you're so tempting. Even in that abomination of shirt."

"Abomination?"

"Yankees," she sighs, shaking her head as if her lover's choice of baseball team was the worst decision of his life. "A plague upon the Earth."

"Blasphemy."

"Truth."

"Keep talking like that and I will stop this car and put you out on the side of the road." His expression is stern, serious, but she can see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and she knows that behind his sunglasses, his dark eyes are twinkling, and she lets him tease her, because he likes it, and she likes how oddly youthful and gleeful it makes him in turn.

She gives an unaffected shrug, "Fine by me. I wore my slinky bra today—I'm sure I can flash a little something to get some kind stranger to pull over and give me a ride."

By now, he has learned the code of Erin's undergarments—_good bra_ means one with support, plain and practical, _nice bra_ means perhaps some lace or a color that accents her skin just perfectly, _slinky bra_ means the kind that makes him want to rip it off her with his teeth, and generally that also means she is wearing matching underwear, which means he is definitely in for a show tonight.

"Although," she shifts slightly in her seat, her eyes wide with faux distress and innocence. "I didn't bring any cash with me…so how will I ever be able to repay whichever wonderful, sweet, kindhearted man comes to my rescue?"

Oh, she is just trying to push his buttons now—she knows, better than most, how jealous her lover can be, how covetous he is, and she only makes it worse by teasing and taunting, by putting images like that in his head (because he's waited so long to have her, _decades_, and the thought of losing her again is too much, because after truly experiencing every aspect of Erin Strauss, how could he ever live without it, without her?).

He glances over at her—she is leaning forward, intentionally enhancing the view of her breasts through low neck of her tank, eyes still wide (she isn't wearing makeup, and the sunshine turns her blonde lashes into halos around those light green orbs, catching him in her gaze), lips still pouty in feigned distress. God Almighty, she is Katherine Hepburn in Marilyn Monroe's body and he can't imagine a more perfect combination.

His fingers tighten around her calf muscle, sending a ripple of heat across her skin at possessiveness behind his touch. Just as he loves making her angry, she loves making his jealous. It adds a heat to his movements, a beautiful brooding that makes her heart stop and her mouth go dry (oh, it's so wrong, the way she reacts to his jealousy, so very wrong and twisted, but her mind's knowing doesn't change her body's reaction—besides, she merely pushes, she never really hurts him, she would never really wound him like that, and deep down, she thinks that he knows he has her number, in a way that no one else ever has or will again).

"Oh, someone doesn't like that idea," she taunts, purring in a patronizing tone. "I have to say, Dave, my darling, that is your major character flaw. You never were very good at sharing."

"Not when it comes to you," he admits, his gaze still focused on the road ahead. He confesses so easily, without any reservation or hesitation, and that is what makes her adore him even more—he may be a royal pain in the ass sometimes, the perfect combination of things specifically designed to drive her bat-shit crazy, but he never lets her doubt for a second that he loves her, that he needs her, that he wants her above all others. She has never had to guess how David Rossi ever felt about her (negatively or positively, both a blessing and a curse), but his openness in communication never loses its appeal.

In fact, it's highly appealing right now. Despite the schooled, unaffected expression behind her lover's dark shades and the easy lines of his body, Erin always seems to see the passion that runs just beneath the surface. But she doesn't want it beneath the surface. She wants it bubbling over, _right now_.

Erin Strauss is a methodical person. She is follower of logic, of pragmatism, of schedules and rules and clean lines and planning. However, David Rossi is her kryptonite, the thing that makes her unpredictable, the thing that makes her _want_ to be unpredictable, the thing that makes her reckless and impulsive and adventurous and hungry for the whole world.

This is a road trip. Road trips are supposed to be adventures, with detours and little escapades and impromptu memories being made. To make the appeal even deeper, she knows that her traveling companion will gladly follow whatever little plan she creates, with the same dash of c'est-la-vie impulsivity and gleeful abandon (it is strange, how they fight and bicker like toddlers at work, but when they are alone, when it's just them, they are two children on a grand adventure through life, wide-eyed and excited and always looking for something new).

Erin decides to follow her impulse, though it isn't really a decision at all—she always follows her impulses with him, without thought or weighing of consequences (which is actually what brought them into this strange new land of relationship in the first place), always finds herself committing to courses of action before she's considered all the ramifications and angles and (almost) never regrets the choice.

So she simply leans back against the passenger door, her eyes locked onto his face, so sure not to miss a single micro-expression as she gently moves her left foot upwards, her heel pressing and massaging his groin.

"What are you doing?" He doesn't turn to her, and she grins at how his warm tone betrays the fact that he knows exactly what she's doing.

"What does it feel like I'm doing?" She returns smoothly, her foot still moving slowly, sensuously. His hand is still on her calf, and he's returning her movements, encouraging her with the light trailing of his fingers across her shin.

"It feels like you're trying to seduce me," he states, and she gives a small hum at the prognosis.

"Do or do not, there is no try," she corrects him (and he isn't sure how he ended up with a woman who runs the most elite unit of the FBI and who can still quote Yoda). He can hear the wicked grin in her voice as she adds, "And it feels like I'm succeeding."

He grins as well, because he can't deny the effect that her actions are having on him (and he wouldn't, even if he could—despite her steely exterior, Erin Strauss is actually an uncertain and doubting girl, an odd juxtaposition for which he blames her ex-husband, and David never misses an opportunity to reassure her that she is desirable simply as she is, that every aspect of her personality and her person are perfect just as they are).

"It feels like you're cruel." His fingers slip beneath the hem of her capri pants, to the soft skin behind her knee that is always ticklish. She gives a slight yip, but she doesn't stop the motion of her foot.

"Cruel? How on earth am I cruel?" Playful curiosity laces her tone.

"Because you're starting something that we can't finish right now."

"Can't we?"

Those two words hold such weight, such knowing warmth and promise that David immediately turns to his traveling companion. Now her foot stops and she simply stares back at him.

He returns his gaze to the road ahead, "We're in the middle of nowhere."

"Yes. We are." He doesn't have to look at her to know that she's grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"You're serious."

His incredulity is adorable, and Erin fights the urge to laugh (because she knows how out-of-character this is, and she is delighted at still being able to surprise the great predictor of human behavior, one of the founding fathers of the BAU, the always on-target David Rossi).

"Whaddya say?" She bites her bottom lip as she waits for his answer, caught between hoping that he'll say yes and hoping that he'll talk her out of one of her craziest ideas yet.

He keeps his face turned towards the road, but she sees the corner of his mouth curling into a devious grin, and she cannot hold back the laughter any longer—she has her answer and she is both thrilled at his ability to play along with her scheme and slightly nervous at the realization that they're really about to do this.

"In the car?" He asks, suddenly serious (despite his brash and impetuous ways, he has always been a man for logistics, her lover).

"I think that will be too close to the road."

His grin broadens. She feels another wave of heat and she knows her chest and her cheeks are already blushing, shining at the promise of this new game.

"I like the way you think, kitten," he informs her, and she hums in amusement. He double-checks the rearview mirror before pulling the car onto the side of the road.

He parks the car and kills the engine, taking off his sunglasses to simply look at the woman sitting across from him, whose eyes are dancing as she beams back at him. Again, he loves knowing that he is the one who has made Erin Strauss happy and playful and airy and brilliant, loves knowing that he has been chosen and invited into this magical little bubble of her inner sanctum, after years of standing outside the thick, cold stone walls of her fortress and quietly waiting for his next little glimpse into her soul.

She unbuckles her seat belt, easily slipping off her baseball cap and tossing it into the back seat as she leans towards him, capturing his mouth in a warm, languorous kiss. She makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a moan (_finally, I've got you again, but oh, it's not enough and I need more_), which he reciprocates, his hand moving up to cup the curve of her jaw, fingers feathering through the tresses now tangled and twisted from the wind.

Then she pulls away, flashing another grin over her shoulder as she slips her shoes back on her feet, getting out of the vehicle and moving towards the woods, which are alive with the sound of birds and dancing with the warm shafts of golden sunlight piercing through the light green leaves (almost the color of her eyes, but not nearly as captivating, not nearly as deep or as moving). She doesn't look back to see if he's coming, but the sway of her hips informs him that she knows he's watching her.

Soon she can hear him catching up to her, his feet stirring the carpet of twigs and dead leaves, and she braces herself for impact, just in time—his arm slips around her waist, his other hand grabbing her neck as he pulls her back around to face him, his mouth clashing into hers as their feet skitter and dance along this unfamiliar path, not breaking pace even for their kisses. She grabs the front of his shirt, turning them again so that he is the one walking backwards as she moves forward, and soon they bump into a tree, finally stopping for a moment as she rolls onto her tiptoes to meet his mouth with her own again.

His hands are cupping her ass, pulling her body further into his, and she moans in approval, her hands moving from the sides of his face into his hair, bringing his head back down to hers.

She pulls back for a moment, her breathing already ragged from desire and the lack of oxygen provided from their lip-lock, "David?"

"Hmm?"

"You're going to have to take off that shirt."

He looks at her for a moment, and then he realizes that she's utterly serious. It's such a completely Erin thing to do, to have such an odd point of pride in a moment like this, and he can't help but laugh.

She thinks that he thinks she's joking, so she gives him one of her best neutral expressions, the bureaucratic I'm-not-fighting-with-you-but-this-is-a-deal-break er look that she has given to many people in many situations (though none so intimate as this). "I'm serious, David. I can't fuck a man in a Yankees shirt. It goes against every fiber of my being."

"If I take off my shirt, then you have to take off yours."

"Deal," she acquiesces so easily, stepping back to remove her tank top before he even has his own shirt off.

David grins like a kid at Christmas (she wasn't kidding when she said that she was wearing her slinky bra), and discards his own shirt, reaching for her, fingertips singing at the soft skin underneath them.

His hands move upwards to appreciate second base, and she's leaning into his touch, her own hands caressing him as her breathing quickens again. He can feel the fluttering of her heartbeat beneath his palm, and he has a feeling that this is going to be more than a home run—it's a grand slam.

It is in this moment that David Rossi realizes how vital—and undeniably wonderful—compromise can be in a relationship. Yes, his beloved Yankees tee is now dirty and lying on the forest floor, but sometimes, you just gotta take one for the team.

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_"Compromise works well in this world when you have shared goals." ~__Jim DeMint_


End file.
